


Cold Cases

by Fatale (femme)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Grey's Anatomy, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV), White Collar
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Sibling Incest, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles and ficlets that either got cut out of longer fics, or more likely, I wandered away from and never finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teen Wolf, Derek/Stiles, PG

Teen Wolf  
Derek/Stiles  
WC: approx. 250

 

Scott rubs the back of his neck tiredly. “Look, I could maybe -- just my hand, or something.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles swears. “No way. We’re best friends and I’d like to be able to look you in the eye sometime in the next decade--”

“We could get him a hooker,” Isaac pipes up, unhelpfully.

“These are my options?” Stiles asks, his brain screaming for mercy from the sheer awfulness of this entire conversation.

Everyone looks at Derek like it’s his call, which is bullshit, but Derek, leaning against the table, shrugs, and his eyes cut away as he says he doesn’t care. His shoulders curl in on themselves, an unconscious symbol of defeat, outlined by the midday sun, eyes shaded and unreadable.

 

\---

 

Before that, there was this:

There was a brief moment, not like a movie moment where time stands still, but one of these fleeting things in real life where something could happen for about thirty seconds, but it slips by you like a light breeze, like sand through your fingers, and then it’s gone. The moment was when Derek’s eyes raked down Stiles’ body, mouth parted, and Stiles watched him, fingers tapping against his knee, shoulders loose, and felt absolute peace, like the last part of thousand piece puzzle snapped into place.

And then Scott suggests the most awkward hand job in the history of best friends ever and Stiles has been trying to recreate that moment ever since, trying to suss out meaning, maybe end it in a different way.

 

 

the end.


	2. Game of Thrones (Jon/Robb) PG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhh, AU. 
> 
> I wanted desperately to write Jon/Robb, but GoT is amazing, but complicated and I ended up in the White Collar Fandom instead. :/

Game of Thrones  
Jon/Robb, PG  
WC: 330

 

 

All Northern kings visit Castle Black eventually.

He sees Jon standing watch on the wall, a dark outline against the snow and sun, too bright to look at directly.

 

\---

 

When they're face to face, after needless and silly introductions, Robb hugs him, like he has a million times before. Robb always leans right, Jon leans left, but not this time.

It's awkward, they fumble a bit and pull apart, Jon avoiding his eyes and shifting from foot to foot. He knows Jon's glad to see him, can see it in the set of his shoulders, the small twitches at the corners of his mouth.

Robb's always known what to do with his hands when Jon was around, except now. His hands fall uselessly at his sides and he says, "It's good to see you, Jon." Which is as stupid as commenting on the weather, but he needs to fill the silence.

"And you, Lord Stark."

Robb opens his mouth the chastise him, tell him not to be a prat, but closes his mouth. Their easiness is gone, and he doesn't know how to get it back, doesn't think he can. He'd been torn up inside when Jon left, but they both knew it wouldn't be the last time they'd meet. Robb had clung to that to fix the ragged wound in his chest, the hurt with each intake of air.

Now, looking at Jon, the chasm between them filled with months and titles and war, he wishes he'd hugged Jon harder that last time, longer, memorized the curve of cheek, the shadow of his eyelashes.

"Shall I show you around?" Jon asks.

Robb wants to touch the black curls at Jon's nape, wants to kiss his mouth, feel the pressure of his teeth against his own, tell Jon he should have kept him, commanded him to stay at Winterfell if that's what it took.

 _I should not have let you go without a fight_ , he thinks.

"Yes, thank you," Robb says instead.


	3. White Collar (Peter/Neal) PG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a fic from "This complicated thing we have" series, but it never happened. I was going to write about Neal going camping with Peter and El just for the lulz.

Peter/Neal  
WC: 200

 

I love you.

It’s not that the words mean that much to him, but Peter thinks, he _knows_ , that people crave the solidity of them. Everyone wants to love and be loved in return. He thinks he can make peace with never hearing them from Neal, so long as he has him like this.

Peter presses a tender kiss into the pale, damp skin of Neal’s neck, right where his hair begins to curl without any product in it, and Neal leans back into the touch, closing his eyes, making a soft sound of contentment, while the birds chirp in the distance and the sun breaks over the horizon.

Against all odds, they have come this far, Peter realizes, and--

Nothing is out of reach if you want it enough and have the courage to take it.

A lifetime’s worth of possibilities stretches out before him as far as the sun reaches, exhilarating and terrifying all at once, and Peter can face it, armed to the teeth with El, fierce and funny and Neal, bright, clever, and hopelessly, gloriously untethered by anything but Peter, and his hands, holding Neal down, marking his skin with teeth and lips and tongue.

 

The end.


	4. Game of Thrones (Jon/Robb) PG-13

Game of Thrones  
Robb/Jon  
PG-13?  
WC: 175

 

Robb traces his fingers up Jon's sternum to the hollow of his throat, where he can see his pulse beating. "The Night's Watch can have the rest of you," he says, “but this is mine.” He kisses it, feeling Jon's pulse speed up.

"This belongs to you?" Jon says, sounding amused and tilting his head back to give Robb better access.

"Yes," Robb says, and dips his tongue in to taste the sweat that's gathered there.

"And how do you plan to claim it? Are you going to plant a flag on me, my Lord?"

Robb can't stop the smile that tugs at his face. "I plan to plant a flag somewhere."

He hears Jon make an undignified sound and feels his smile grow wider.

It's stupid, so damnably stupid, he thinks, for so much happiness to hinge on one person. He rains kisses on Jon's neck, across his jaw, feels the butterfly whisper of his eyelashes against his face. He avoids his mouth.

To change the way they usually spend nights together would be to admit they have something to change.


	5. Neal/Peter, camping AGAIN

“Oh, fuck fuck fuck,” Neal grumbles, stepping gingerly over dirt and stones.

“No one told you to wear a suit,” Peter says. 

“I don’t _do_ shorts,” Neal snaps irritably. 

El huffs a laugh. “I told you we were going on vacation and to pack for the outdoors.”

“Right,” Neal says, “which is why I included khakis.”

“Peter and I try to go camping at least once a year,” El says, ignoring Neal’s constant stream of low-level bitching. “Lately, we haven’t really had the time. It’s become more of a once every three years thing.”

“Couldn’t you have made it a four year thing?” Neal asks mournfully, glaring at his dusty shoes.


	6. White Collar: Like your style (love your smile) Neal/Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wildly OOC and silly. Just...pure crack

Like your style (love your smile)  
Neal/Peter  
WC: 920

Omfg, you guys. I wasn’t going to post this, but ya’ll are relentless. Wrote this as comment fic for for [this](http://collarkink.livejournal.com/3437.html?thread=4389229#t4389229) prompt: _Nothing happened to Neal in prison. But sometimes he hints that it did to guilt Peter into buying him stuff. Cracky as you like._

 

 

Peter doesn’t know what happened to Neal in prison, but sometimes, Neal’s eyes go far-away and haunted, sometimes he flinches away from Peter’s touch, and Peter’s chest seizes up as if all the air’s left his lungs. If Peter was a better man, he’d pull Neal’s medical records and check, but--

Peter’s afraid of what he’ll find and he doesn’t want to think of Neal - bright, happy, wickedly clever Neal - hurt, made vulnerable in any way. 

He’s a good man, but not good enough.

\---

 

Neal knows Peter thinks some kind of crazy gangbang happened to him in prison, but mostly Neal played cards with the guards or a couple of inmates. He had a good thing going with the Warden, who liked Belgian Chocolates and Pall Malls, which Neal traded for extended library hours and good quality coffee.

The first time Neal flinched when Peter grabbed his arm was an honest to God mistake, because Peter’s stealthy like a _freak_ , and Neal nearly pissed himself with surprise. When the tie showed up on his desk an hour later and Peter kept shooting him nervous glances and walking three paces behind him, asking solicitously if he needed anything, anything at all, Neal was pretty sure Peter had lost his goddamn mind.

The second time it happened, Neal thought, _Oh_.

 

\---

 

Something passes over Neal’s face when Peter stands too close to him, gone in an instant, but Peter thinks it looks like _fear_ , and it guts him. He wants to ask, to apologize, to make it up to Neal somehow, but he doesn’t know where to begin. 

So he buys Neal coffee, ties, lets him go home early when he looks tired. It’s fumbling and not nearly good enough, but it’s the only thing he knows how to do. If he could apologize a thousand times a day for a thousand years, he still doesn’t think it would be enough. But if it would make Neal feel better, he’d do it.

 

\---

 

So far Peter has bought him: 

194 coffees - Starbucks, not the shitty coffee cart stuff  
3 ties  
A silver tie clip  
Vintage cufflinks  
4 pairs of socks  
A pack of tennis balls?  
Regularly brings him Elizabeth’s homemade gelato  
A vest that doesn’t fit  
A leather keychain  
Tickets to the opera (which is outside his radius, thanks, Peter)

Neal should tell him…something, but Peter’s so nice about it and it’s not like he’s _lied_ about it or anything. And someday, he might really, really need a get out of jail free card. Literally.

 

\---

 

“Neal,” Peter says, “you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

Sure, Neal thinks, unless it has to do with anything illegal he’s done, which discounts 90% of his life.

“I mean,” Peter continues, “anything that may or may not have happened to you in prison. Not that it’s any of my business. Just -- I’m here for you.”

Oh _Christ_ , this is just. This is too much. Peter’s eyes are _glistening_.

Neal sets down the file he had open and looks at Peter squarely. “You know, nothing happened to me in prison.”

“I _know_ ,” Peter says significantly. “When you’re ready to talk...”

Neal huffs, “No, not when I’m not feeling so emotionally fragile, not when I can learn to trust again. Nothing happened to me in prison.” He adds, perhaps unnecessarily judging by Peter’s expression, “Or my ass.”

“Are you -- are you serious?”

“Yes,” Neal says firmly. 

Neal has heard the phrase “The truth will set you free” but he’s pretty sure it’s wrong in this case. The truth, he reflects, is likely to get him sent back to prison.

“Why in God’s name would you let me believe you were _abused_?”

“I never said,” Neal interjects quickly. He figures the longer Peter has to think about it, the angrier he’s going to get and it’s probably in Neal’s best interest to cut him off. “You _assumed_ , which is kind of insulting, to be honest. It’s like you figured I was so _weak_ , inmates wouldn’t be able to keep their hands off me or something.”

Peter shakes his head disbelievingly. “How’s did this get to be my fault? It had nothing to do with you being weak. It’s because, well, look at you.”

“What about me?”

“You’re _beautiful_ , you idiot.”

“I--wait, huh?”

Peter’s ears are bright red, his lips thinned, his shoulders hunched involuntarily -- he looks so acutely embarrassed, Neal feels instantly charmed, then kind of…shitty. He should have told Peter earlier. He didn’t know it was about _feelings_ and he should have--

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Neal says.

“Yeah, well, you’re going to work off all the stuff I bought you.”

“Sure,” Neal agrees easily. “You can take it out of the below minimum wage I make here.”

“I’m never going to see that money am I?” Peter asks resignedly. 

“Not likely,” Neal says and pauses. Peter thinks he’s like, beautiful or something. Peter has feelings for him. He likes Peter, maybe has feelings for him also. He thinks Peter’s kind of crazy-hot, if you like the tall, commanding, muscular types. He does. 

Neal tilts his head down and peers up at Peter from beneath his eyelashes. “I could, uh, work out some kind of payment plan.”

Peter snorts, “ What kind of payment plan would you actually--” Whatever he sees in Neal’s expression makes him stop and his ears flush red again. “Ah,” he says and clears his throat, “yes, yes, that. Good.”

 

The end. :D :D


	7. I think we have different ideas about courtship (Stiles/Derek)

I think we have different ideas about courtship  
Derek/Stiles  
WC: 170

 

Derek looks doubtfully at the flowers. “They’re--nice, I guess.” 

Stiles shifts his backpack from one shoulder to the other. He should wear it on both shoulders; his dad’s always lecturing him about fucking up his back by the time he’s forty. “I just,” Stiles says, “Lydia -- she likes flowers.”

“I’m not a girl, Stiles,” Derek snaps. 

“Jesus,” Stiles says. “I know -- fuck. I know, okay? This was stupid.”

Derek looks down at the flowers, then back at Stiles. His expression softens, the corner of his mouth pulls up into a slight almost-smile and Stiles thinks for one crazy minute that Derek’s going to do something insane, like invite him in.

“Then do better next time,” Derek says, and his voice has a note of something unfamiliar, something that sounds to Stiles like _not-hate_ , and shuts the door in Stiles’ face with a soft click. 

Stiles blinks at the door for a minute. It isn’t until he gets back to his Jeep that he realizes Derek kept the flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, no. I'm probably going to come back and finish this.


	8. grey's anatomy (Cristina, Alex) G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grey's anatomy  
> wc: approx. 400  
> Cristina, Alex  
> post 9x06

“Hey, Yang--” Alex calls out, running after her.

Cristina turns, rolls her eyes over-dramatically so Karev can see it, will know that she has more important things to do than listen to beefcake bitching this early in the morning. She still has rounds, has to check on a few pending labs, needs to--

“You drank all the orange juice,” Alex says.

“So?”

“You drank it _all_ ,” Alex complains, “then put the carton back in the refrigerator -- who does that?”

“I do, apparently,” Cristina says. “And so did you last week. Pissed me off.”

“Everything pisses you off,” Alex says. “It’s part of your terrible charm.”

“That’s true -- wait, did you just call me charming.”

“Sure,” Alex says, “if 'charming’' means 'uber-bitch'.”

“Depends on what dictionary you’re using,” Cristina says absently, already losing interest in the conversation. Men talk too much. It was probably a poor choice to move in with Alex, they’re too much alike in some ways and too far away in others to ever really be friends. But life moves so damn fast, she didn’t know where to go and -- she wanted to get back to familiar, neutral ground. A place that reminded her of old hurts, but also, better days. Sleeping in on Saturdays with Meredith, their ill-advised stint at jogging, George, Izzie.

“Just--replace the goddamn orange juice next time,” Alex says. “I’m too busy for this shit.”

“Hey, devil spawn, if you could pull your self-absorbed head out of your sphincter for a moment, you’d know that we’re all too busy to make epic shopping trips to make sure you don’t run out of your wheaties and juice in the mornings.” Cristina braces herself for whatever nastiness is about to spew from Karev’s mouth, mentally rifles through her backup zingers.

Instead, Alex grins slightly, says, “I think there’s a service that delivers groceries to your house.”

“Great, we can pay someone to take care of us and make sure we don’t starve,” Cristina says, slightly deflated.

“Yeah, we should probably hire a cleaning service, too,” Alex says thoughtfully. “And someone to do our laundry. Oh hey -- do you think someone could actually come over and cook for us?”

“Like a live in chef?”

“No,” Alex says, flushing a little. “But maybe, yeah.”

“We’ll make a list,” Christina decides. “Order them according to priorities, then we’ll make the decision together.”

 

the end.


	9. A field of broken things: four Draco drabbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this for deora_mystic like, a million years ago. Whatever, I'm a flake. Just posted it now and wrote up a few more drabbles to go along with it. 400 words total, rated G. All Draco-centric.
> 
> Originally posted to my LJ in 2006.

Mother used to throw lavish parties that he'd be lucky to glimpse before he was rushed off to bed, where he'd listen enviously to the gentle laughter below. 

One day, out of pure spite, he knocked her flower arrangement over and the crystal vase hit the table with a satisfying crack, the little slivers of glass like music against the floor. 

His mother angrily grabbed him by the arm and sent him to his room without dinner. 

The last image he has of his mother is watching her that night, golden and beautiful, standing over a field of broken things. 

 

*

 

Pansy didn't have much to offer Draco in the way of looks, but she had wit and cunning. Draco's name didn't hold any real power in their circle anymore, but she kept writing to him religiously to let him know what was going on, to keep him up on the gossip.

Blaise thought she was a fool and that Draco would soil her good name, too.

Pansy didn't have much to offer Draco in the way of beauty or charm, but she had wit and cunning. Draco was the only one that ever made her feel like that was enough.

 

*

 

Goyle wasn't so sure why Draco left or when he'd be back, but he was sure Draco _would be_. He was that kind of person - loyal as a 'Puff but not as stupid or easy to beat up. 

He wished Draco would come back to let him know what he was supposed to do. His dad mentioned the Dark Lord again last night.

Draco's favourite sweets were Ice Mice and Chocolate Frogs, so Goyle made sure to always keep some in his pocket just in case. 

They melted in the heat, Goyle found, but he thought Draco would understand.

 

*

 

Harry didn't know where Draco Malfoy was and he didn't much care. After seeing the stricken, white look on his face, Harry didn't think he was much of a threat.

If he saw Malfoy again, he wasn't sure what he'd do. Maybe kill him, maybe let him live - a small part of his mind cringed away from the fact that those were the kind of thoughts he had during weddings, watching Bill and Fleur dance.

Still, wherever Draco was, perhaps he'd gotten away and wouldn't be back. Harry kind of hoped so; maybe one of them could finally rest.


	10. all bets off, Sam/Dean, Corsets & Stockings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For innie_darling who asked for Dean and garters/stockings
> 
> all bets off  
> Dean/Sam, borderline smutty PG-13  
> WC: 394
> 
> Posted Dec 3, 2006.

The corset was too tight. Dean didn’t know how women wore these things and still looked hot.

“Could you not do that? Jesus, Sam,” Dean whined as Sam tugged the laces tightly behind him.

“This is a CORSET, Dean. It’s supposed to be tight.”

“Yeah, well. I’m going to be singing an octave higher in a minute.”

“You need to blend in,” Sam said. Dean’s bare shoulders looked absurd above the black fabric hugging his body, alternately hunching in on himself and flexing outward like Dean couldn‘t go five minutes without strutting, no matter what the costume.

He looked awkward and masculine and...it was doing funny things to Sam’s stomach.

“Why did it have to be me? You’re the princess.”

“We went over this,” Sam said, exasperation not the only thing making him a little breathless. “I dug up the last body and you promised you’d do the dirty work next time.” He paused and then gave the laces another sharp tug for emphasis. “It’s next time.”

“I’ll dig up the next twenty bodies if you dress up just this once,” Dean said, sounding a little pathetic and not caring. He wasn’t above wheedling.

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam said and blew out a hard breath. “You look fine, okay? No, you look great. So shut the fuck up and put on your stocking and garters.”

Dean turned half-around to look at him before wincing at the confines of the corset. “You think I look great?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

“Whatever,” Sam muttered and backed away. He refused to look up.

Dean still hadn’t turned. “I can’t...”

“Can’t what?”

“Need help with my stockings,” Dean said, holding the flimsy scraps of material to the side like a bug. He bent over, and slipped a foot in one, then cursed softly. “Jesus, I ripped it.”

“Here,” Sam said and rushed forward to help Dean without letting himself think too much about what he was doing. He stepped up behind Dean, crouched low, and grabbed the stocking. He bunched it up and slipped it over Dean’s foot and up his leg, slowly, pulling the fabric taut, fingers trailing lightly over Dean’s calf and thigh.

He rested his hand there, at the place lace met smooth skin, and felt the steady pulse under his fingers.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Now do the other one.”


	11. untouchable, Pansy/Hermione, PG-13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For eliminate, who asked for HP females and lace.
> 
> untouchable  
> Pansy/Hermione, PG-13  
> WC: 94. I know, I fail!

Hermione hated Pansy, hated everything she stood for: greed and shallowness, evil and willing blindness. Or maybe Pansy did know, maybe she knew what Draco - all of her friends, really - were up to and just didn’t care.

Of course, there was the chance she was directly involved, but Hermione didn’t like to think about that, not when Pansy was shoving aside her bra and nipping at the warm, smooth skin she found there with her sharp little teeth.

“Fuck,” Hermione said, voice low and ragged, without knowing what exactly she was cursing.


	12. Dean/Sam, PG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted 2007.

Dean's food marked his moods, Sam noticed. When he was happy, Dean ate sugar - candies, sodas. When he was upset, he ate to comfort himself. The day after they left Cassie, Dean wandered out of the hotel room with the obvious intention to get plastered. When he came back - and Sam was surprised that Dean hadn't picked up someone there, but maybe it was too soon - he reeked of whiskey and burgers.

Greasy food when he was feeling something he couldn't express, then.

Ever since Sam reached for Dean that night, he's noticed Dean doubling up on the twinkies, going at them like a hoover in a sandstorm.

"Gonna stop. Need anything?" Dean asked, squinting his eyes against the early morning sun as he pulled up in front of a gas station.

"Kinda hungry," Sam said and scratched his stomach lazily. "Just get me whatever you're having." He rested his hand on the seat next to Dean and saw Dean's eyes flicker down.

It was just a brief gesture, no more than a whisper of heat against his skin, but he felt Dean's hand against his.

"Gonna have twinkies and a coke," Dean said.

Sam smiled. "Sounds good."


	13. White Collar: Elizabeth Burke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleetingly, she thinks of the frog being boiled so slowly it didn’t know it was being boiled alive until it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little thing about El that ended up being SUPER depressing.

El wakes up at 5 am, brushes her hair back from her face and grabs her gym bag for yoga class. She tried running but her feet ended up too swollen to wear her favorite heels, so fuck that.

Style over health any day of the week. Still, yoga's a better fit for her anyway. It gives her time to think, and keeps her limber, which Peter seems to appreciate.

After class, she feels relaxed, feels good. She takes a quick shower, changes into her favorite blue dress and puts on a little light makeup. Hair down today, she decides. She makes a pot of coffee, eats a couple pieces of toast -- with extra butter, as a small treat. Peter will be waking up soon, so she cuts up some fruit, makes pancake batter so it'll be ready.

 

\---

 

After breakfast and a sticky kiss on the cheek from Peter, she takes Satchmo out for a walk, fills up his water and food dishes, goes upstairs to grab her briefcase and purse. She has three meetings scheduled with prospective clients, two follow-ups with regulars, who just need a few details ironed out. Then she needs to call about a shipment of caviar, test out the champagne, call a few caterers to provide some samples for a tasting. On her way into work, she grabs a coffee, black with two sugars, sips it while mentally scrolling through the inventory of china. They need to get some replacements -- Yvonne can do that for her, as long as she makes out a list. She's going to need to rent some furniture, also something she can delegate, if she can get the family to narrow down their guest list. She's gently hinted a few times that their budget won't cover the amount of people they want to invite, but now it's crunch time and she can’t afford to be polite about it.

She calls Peter, gets his voicemail and leaves a message.

 

\---

 

She gets screamed at once, told she’s incompetent, even though she warned the caviar might get held up at customs, gets told she’s a lifesaver, gets cried on twice by an overly emotional bride and overly emotional mother of the bride, respectively, and is nearly hit by a car while chasing after a young woman who left her purse in El’s office. Her hands are shaking when she dials Peter’s number on her cell phone, fatigue tugging at the corners of her eyes, making her fingers numb and clumsy. It goes to voicemail; he must be busy.

She doesn’t bother leaving a message.

She takes a deep, steadying breath, and puts her phone away, plasters a smile on her face and grabs a cab downtown.

 

\---

 

The day is thankfully over, Yvonne having gone home two hours ago. She picks up the dry-cleaning, some takeout for dinner -- Italian, Peter’s favorite -- and lets Satchmo out once she’s home. She showers, changes, lays out dinner. She gets a call two hours later that Peter won’t be home for dinner, but he’ll definitely be home, don’t wait up.

She sets Peter’s plate on the floor for Satchmo, scratches behind his eat while he gobbles it down, takes a sip of her wine while she sits at the table alone.

 

\---

 

Peter slides into bed behind her, arm circling her waist. “Warm El,” Peter hums appreciatively. She can hear the exhaustion in his voice, the faint creak of his joints. They are, neither of them, quite as young as they used to be. She’d thought -- well, she had assumed she wouldn’t be going to bed alone quite so much by now, but life has a way of moving on with or without you. Fleetingly, she thinks of the frog being boiled so slowly it didn’t know it was being boiled alive until it was too late. This is not the life she would have chosen for herself at twenty, or maybe even at thirty, but it’s the life she’s found herself with, nonetheless.

“What did you get up to today?” Peter whispers.

“Not much,” El says and rolls over to face him, secure in the circle of his arms. “Tried to call you a few times.”

“I saw that, sorry,” Peter says. “It was crazy today and I kept meaning to call and then--”

“You forgot,” El finishes for him.

“You know how I am,” Peter says sheepishly.

“I know how you are,” Elizabeth says and pulls him close. “Tell me about your day,” she says, and Peter does.

 

 

 


End file.
